


Big Shiny Bloke

by Mynameisdoubleg



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Orks (Warhammer 40.000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynameisdoubleg/pseuds/Mynameisdoubleg
Summary: Things aren't looking so good for ork nob Buzzkill: The invasion has ground to a halt and his boyz are dropping like ... well, boyz. What he really needs is some good news -- like the news that his boyz have done the impossible: They've captured the Big Shiny Bloke hisself. Yep. That's right. They've captured the God Emperor of Mankind.
Kudos: 8





	Big Shiny Bloke

Buzzkill shifted atop his small mound of skulls and scratched his temple with the barrel of his shoota. He had a headache, due to the strange new feeling now occurring within his dense skull: He was having an idea. The idea was this: Warboss Hugemassacre was going to be furious.  
The invasion of Rychese was going horribly.  
“Any of you lot gorrany good news?” Buzzkill groused to the cluster of ork boyz who stood about his makeshift throne, itself ensconced within a ruined building that had once been one of those human temples to slaughter -- a meat-packing plant.  
The boyz looked nervously at one another.  
“Well … Killjoy and ‘iz boyz did take da bridge yestiddy,” volunteered one.  
“Dere ya go!” Buzzkill grinned tuskily. “Where’s Killjoy now?”  
“Well … most of ‘im izzat da bottom of da river. Turns out the hoomans ‘ad da ‘ole fing dynamited.”  
Buzzkill’s grin disappeared. He regarded the ork who had spoken for a long time in unblinking silence. “Dat’s not ‘specially good news, izzit?”  
“Oh, yeah. No, chief, not as such. Sorry.”  
Buzzkill nodded once, satisfied. Then blew the ork’s head off with one burst of his shoota.  
“Anybody else gorrany news?”  
There was a commotion at the entrance to the war camp. An ork kaptin staggered in, breathing hard, bellowing that he had to speak with Buzzkill.  
Buzzkill waved his bodyguards aside, motioned for the kaptin to approach. Levelled his shoota. “Dis berrer be good,” he growled.  
The ork saluted, fist to temple. “Kaptin Deadpan reportin’. Success! Da nobbiest nob! Da bossiest boss! Da hooman number … dat comes right before ‘two’. We captured ‘im, he’z ours!”  
“Who iz?”  
“Da hooman whatsit, da whosit …” Deadpan frowned in concentration, then snapped his fingers. “Deir God!”  
“Deir … God?” Buzzkill repeated.  
Deadpan nodded. “Yup!”  
“You sure?”  
“Yup, had ‘iz name written an’ everyfing!”  
“Deir God, da big shiny bloke who wot lives on Terra, who az ‘iz frone on Terra an’ never leaves Terra, your lot captured dat God ‘ere, not on Terra at all but on da planet Rychese?”  
“Yup!”  
“Deadpan my lad, come over ‘ere would you?” Buzzkill beckoned the ork forward. Once Deadpan was within grabbing-by-the-throat range, Buzzkill grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. “Now listen ‘ere, Deadpan, my chum: Da hooman God is one of da most powerful blokes who wot ever lived, ever, and you are, to be frank, a smelly, grubby, snot-nosed little ork kaptin. So lemme arsk you one more time: Are you quite, quite sure your boyz have captured da hooman God?”  
Deadpan attempted to answer, discovered he lacked enough air, and settled for a weak grin and a nod instead.  
“Blimey,” said Buzzkill almost dreamily, abruptly letting the kaptin’s neck go and sending him crashing to the floor, where he lay, rubbing his bruised throat.  
“Wait ‘till Warboss Hugemassacre ‘ears about dis … ” another of the kaptins said brightly.  
Buzzkill blinked and refocused, eyes narrowed. He turned slowly towards the ork that had spoken, and the barrel of the shoota followed.  
“… which he never will, coz none of us would go squealin’ to ‘im. Right ladz?”  
There were various nods and grunts to the effect that informing the Warboss of their prize was the very last thing on anyone’s mind, and indeed, the very thought of which had never even occurred to them.  
“Right, glad dat’s sorted,” nodded Buzzkill. “Deadpan, you lead us to ‘im. Everyone else, follow me. Nobody stays behind. I don’t trust you lot further’n I could throw you.”  
The ramshackle mob poured out of the camp (viz, the meat-packing plant) and into the shattered city. Greasy black smoke wreathed about them. The distant rattle of autogun fire and crump of artillery echoed down the narrow streets.  
“Owright, which way?” Buzzkill demanded.  
“Izza sort of prison fing dey got down ‘ere,” Deadpan said, setting off at a trot.  
“Dey had deir God inna prison?”  
“Yeah, ‘ole place fulla cages an’ ‘at.”  
“Cages? He put up much of a fight den?”  
“Nah, he just ‘owled a bit,” Deadpan shrugged, leading them around a burned-out ground vehicle. “Don’t see wot all da fuss is about, really.”  
The glass inches above Deadpan’s head exploded outwards, lashing him in a sharp diamond rain. The war party roared defiance and returned fire with every weapon they had, not deterred in the least by having no idea where the shot came from. There was a second shot, and one of the boyz toppled as the back of his head blew open.  
“Bolt sniper,” Buzzkill bellowed. “Must be da rescue party. Da rest of you lot, flush ‘em out. Deadpan, you’re wif me. On da double now!”  
Buzzkill fired three ear-hammering bursts from his shoota that removed several floors from the buildings lining the opposite side of the road, then grabbed Deadpan by the scruff of the neck and dragged him down a side street. A sniper shot punched a fist-sized hole in the wall just as they rounded the corner, spraying them with brick dust.   
“Just up dere,” Deadpan said, pointing. There was a squat building with a damaged sign, in pastel pinks and blues, which read: “Rych__e’s Fi__st P___”.  
Buzzkill fired another wild jackhammer burst back down the street, and the two orks crashed through the doors and into the cramped, ammonia-scented room beyond.  
“Dat’s ‘im!” Deadpan said triumphantly, pointing.  
The human “God” regarded them warily from behind thin grey bars. Its black nose twitched and its long pink tongue lolled from its mouth. When they stepped closer, it flattened its ears against its head and growled at them, revealing a row of sharp teeth.   
The sign above the cage read: “Dog.”  
“Deadpan, you dyslexic sod …” Buzzkill groaned.  
“What, boss?”  
Buzzkill gestured despairingly at the animal. Sighed in resignation, took a deep breath. “Here, lemme explain,” he said, and shot Deadpan between the eyes.  
He sighed again. The Warboss was going to be furious.


End file.
